


come to me with bad intentions

by allourheroes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Possessive Behavior, Possible Bad Friend Scott, Possible Breeding Kink, Sex Pollen, Soul Bond, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Underage Stiles Stilinski, Virgin Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 19:10:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17167691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allourheroes/pseuds/allourheroes
Summary: Like a lot of things, magic is all about intent.Stileshadn'tintended to knock over the jar. And Derekhadintended only to help.Intentions aren't always what they seem.





	come to me with bad intentions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anefi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anefi/gifts).



> I'm a day late and kind of a dollar short since I really want to do a second part, but...HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YOU WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS EVE BABY, YOU! You're fantastic and I hope you actually like this... :)
> 
> All other readers, please heed the warnings. Stiles is sixteen in this and it's sex pollen/fuck or die.
> 
> Thanks to everyone in the sterekdrabbles comm for sprinting with me and introducing me to the fabulous Anefi, along with special thanks to [sadwolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sadwolf) for reading this over!

Stiles taps his pencil on his desk until the teacher glares him down, at which point he starts shaking his leg instead. He chews on his bottom lip, but he takes notes when he’s supposed to. For the most part. He starts in on a tangent halfway through and realizes he stopped listening to Ms. Gutierrez more than five minutes ago because the bell is about to ring and she’s assigned something he has absolutely no clue about until he sneaks a peek at Hannah’s paper beside him.

He’s a little bit better in Harris’s class, if only because he’s keeping such a tight grip on himself that he might snap. He _really_ doesn’t want detention today, not when he’s supposed to go to Deaton’s after school.

Which… Well, normally that wouldn’t be very exciting and Stiles doesn’t particularly _care_ for Deaton, but today holds the promise of _magic_. Stiles is willing to put up with a lot of cryptic bullshit if it means he gets to learn about magic.

Stiles makes it through the rest of the day with only a couple of small incidents that he’s able to talk his way out of. He might be overexcited, but he’s also extremely motivated.

“Scotty,” he says as they congregate in front of their lockers. “Scott.” He flails. “I could learn _magic_. Deaton says I’ve got some kind of— of _spark_. A spark!”

A couple of other students side-eye him but Stiles doesn’t bother looking away from Scott, who is not nearly as excited as he should be. “I heard him,” Scott says slowly.

“So?!” Stiles shouts, then lowers his voice. “How are you not totally and completely thrilled by my future awesome possibilities?”

Scott shrugs. “I don’t know, Stiles. I don’t think this,” and he waves his hand, “ _stuff_ has really done us any good.” He frowns and Stiles hates how his best friend’s disapproval, although ridiculous and ultimately dismissable, still has the power to make his hopes fall instantly.

“Look,” Stiles leans in close to Scott. “We should have something on our side, right? I could be that thing.” In his head, he wonders if it’s because he won’t be the helpless human anymore, that maybe Scott doesn’t want Stiles to have anything resembling the power that lycanthropy has given him.

“I guess,” Scott allows finally, but his face tells Stiles exactly how much he believes it.

Stiles lets out a long sigh, his brain already starting to doubt everything he had been hoping since Deaton said he could be something. “Are you meeting me over there later?”

“Allison—”

Stiles cuts him off. “Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

Thirty minutes after Scott heads to Allison’s, Stiles is standing in the backroom of the vet clinic, impatiently drumming his fingers on the metal exam table. “So what do I do?” he says. “Turn water to wine?” He picks up one of the jars in front of him and starts unscrewing and screwing the lid back on.

Deaton shoots him a disappointed look, and Stiles is certain that Deaton wouldn’t be doing this if he hadn’t been waiting for someone with some semblance of magical promise for however long he’s been the keeper of Beacon Hills’ secrets. “Don’t touch anything.” He takes the jar. “Remember, magic reads your _intent_ , and if your intent is unclear, so is your magic.”

Stiles nods slowly and solemnly. He really _is_ taking all of this seriously. He’s just also seriously excited.

After watching Stiles for a moment consideringly, Deaton tells Stiles he has a book in the backroom and its very exact location so there can be no confusion as to which book he means.

With a pout, Stiles goes to retrieve it dutifully. He had tried whining, but that had only gotten him a “perhaps you’re not ready” speech that he had vehemently denied.

Stiles rummages through the shelves far more than he needs to—whether out of petulance or an inability to focus, it’s unclear. He goes to pull out the book, wrinkling his nose as a plume of dust is roused, and, being Stiles, jerks his elbow back at the same time.

He hits something and he twirls around to catch it, but he watches in slow motion—but not really, Stiles can’t do that, not yet—as the jar shatters on the floor and sprays a fine red mist up into the air.

Deaton opens the door. “Stiles, what was—” He immediately covers his nose and mouth and, belatedly, Stiles does the same. He gestures Stiles out of the room and Stiles nearly forgets the book, but he manages to grab it. He can _at least_ get what he was supposed to. See? Stiles can follow instruction. He’s _totally_ ready for the kind of magic that can melt someone’s face off.

Deaton locks the door and shoves a towel that had been hanging to the side down to the crack at the bottom.

“Just in case,” Deaton says. “It should be inert in twelve hours, but for now we must avoid exposure.” He eyes Stiles warily. “Did it get on you? Did you inhale?”

Stiles gapes, mouth opening and not-quite-closing as his jaw works. “No? I don’t know!” He throws his arm out toward the door. “What _was_ that? Am I gonna die? Or— Or turn into a werewolf? Dr. Stiles and Mr. Hyde?!”

Deaton centers himself, squares his shoulders. “Nothing of the sort,” he assures, but he looks distinctly uncomfortable, worried.

“‘Nothing of the—’” Stiles stops and blinks at Deaton, scoffing. “Then why all the panic, huh? You could give a guy a heart attack, you know.”

There’s a crash from the front of the clinic and Stiles’s head whips in that direction, already starting toward it when Deaton puts a gentle but commanding hand to his forearm. “Wait here,” he says. He offers something _like_ a smile, but it still seems a shade too close to “I’m sorry to tell you, but you only have thirty days to live.” Or maybe thirty minutes.

Stiles has no clue but it definitely isn’t as calming as Deaton likely intended it to be. Ha! _Intent_.

He paces and twitches, but he stops himself from touching anything else.

It’s warm in the clinic. Like, too warm. It’s winter. Maybe Deaton is one of those people who gets cold all the time and likes ninety degree weather. Stiles really doesn’t know or care, but it’s nice to think about something other than _whatever that thing was_.

He glances down and thinks he sees remnants of red powder on his pants and hoodie so he swipes at them hastily, hoping to rid himself of the evidence. Good enough, he decides.

And yet Stiles is still examining his hoodie when the door opens and Deaton barrels in, followed closely by Derek.

“I don’t know why you felt you had to come,” Deaton is saying. “There’s no member of your pack here, nor is Mr. Stilinski in”—and the pause is so slight you might not hear it if you didn’t know how Deaton usually spoke—“any real danger.” Stiles rolls his eyes. He’s definitely dying.

Derek’s eyes land on Stiles and Stiles stills, caught in his gaze. Then, suspiciously, Derek inhales deeply through his nose. He gives Stiles a full once-over. “What’s wrong with him?”

Deaton lets out a harsh sigh. “I was hoping nothing, but you seem to have confirmed otherwise. He was exposed to the powdered form of a flower that hunters used to collect. I had a small amount of it left in the back and he…” Deaton eyes Stiles. “Had a little mishap.”

“Pretty sure that’s his way of saying I screwed up and now I’m going to die.”

Derek’s brows knit together. “You don’t smell like you’re dying. It’s not decay. It’s—” He frowns, at a loss for how to continue.

It’s alright, Stiles thinks. He’d have no idea how to continue either.

“Perhaps you should stay on your side of the room,” Deaton instructs and it’s only then that Stiles realizes that he’s about two steps from being right up in Derek’s personal bubble, not that Derek ever cares about getting in _his_.

Stiles takes a step back but Derek steps forward, maintaining the distance between them.

“I don’t, um. I don’t feel well.” Stiles swipes a hand over his forehead. He keeps looking at Derek and maybe it’s because he thinks Derek is going to eat him, but...maybe not.

“I can drive you home,” Deaton suggests and the thought is bitter and unpleasant in Stiles’s mind, sour in the pit of his stomach.

“I can take you,” Derek suggests.

That’s… Stiles feels warm at the thought, still a hint unpleasant but better. It sounds like a _really good idea_. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I wouldn’t advise—”

Stiles waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. It’s fine. Derek’s… Derek’s been to my house before. And I don’t think I should be driving right now, so.”

Deaton pulls Derek aside—or, rather, Derek must let him. “You need to be careful. Make sure he gets home safe then come straight back. We’ll talk.”

Derek just raises an eyebrow at first, but then he nods. “Okay.” He shrugs off Deaton’s touch and looks to Stiles.

Stiles tilts his head to the door and starts to move when Derek seems to be stuck waiting.

He can feel Derek’s eyes on him as they make their way out. “Where’s the, uh. Your car?”

“I ran,” Derek explains.

“Then how are you supposed to get me home?”

Derek rolls his eyes and takes the keys that Stiles has already somehow got in his hand.

“Oh. Right.”

The second the car starts, Stiles turns on the A/C full blast. It’s not working like he thinks it should and he fiddles with the control but nothing seems to actually help.

The car stops and Derek waits.

“What?”

“You have to get out of the car, Stiles.”

“And leave you alone in my car? Uh-uh. Not even for two seconds.”

Derek turns off the ignition, but he doesn’t put the key back into Stiles’s grabby hands. Instead, he sets them on the dash and pushes them toward the passenger side, like he’s afraid of handing them off directly.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “I don’t think I’m contagious.”

Derek glares at him hard and Stiles is annoyed. He doesn’t want to walk away though.

“Come on, sour wolf,” Stiles says, and he’s thinking about Derek in his bedroom. He shakes his head, tries to clear his thoughts. “You’re not going to…” He trails off.

There’s no real reason Derek needs to hide out in his room right now. He’s not actively wanted by the law or anything. So he doesn’t need to be there. At all. But…

But then Derek shrugs, gets out of the car, makes Stiles follow _him_ as they go into Stiles’s house, go up into Stiles’s bedroom.

Stiles has a vague sense-memory of unlocking the door but he only takes in the situation when they’re already in his room. He only remembers a pull, staggering after his calling.

“I took you home,” Derek says, as if it isn’t obvious.

Dumbly, Stiles nods in agreement. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m in your bedroom.”

Stiles watches Derek. They’re so close he could count Derek’s eyelashes but it’s not close enough.

Stiles nearly makes contact and Derek grabs him.

“What are you—” he starts, staring into Derek’s eyes. He tilts his head, belatedly realizing that he’s baring his throat, and red bleeds into Derek’s usual hazel.

Derek pulls back, blinks away the red.

Stiles could _feel_ it, the way Derek had wanted him in that touch, even if only for a moment, and it made him feel okay again.

Derek is less certain, but his abashed expression tells Stiles everything he needs to know.

“You?” Stiles starts. “ _Me_?!”

Miserably, Derek rolls his eyes.

“Derek— _Derek_!” Stiles tries to shout but it comes out more a whisper, too scared of what this all means.

Derek huffs out harshly through his nose, obviously uncomfortable, and Stiles almost feels bad. _Almost_. Because the shaking in his limbs doesn’t stop until Derek’s skin is against his and _god_. What a feeling.

Stiles shuffles closer without thinking about it and Derek tentatively lets one hand rest on the crux of Stiles’s neck and shoulder, the other hand slipping beneath the loose edge of his t-shirt, hot over his hip. “What’s happening to me?” Stiles asks, but all he really wants to do is rub himself all over Derek, have Derek touch him anywhere he can reach, places he _can’t_ —

“Something’s affecting us,” Derek says slowly, trying to keep control of his words. His fingers flex and it almost feels _sharp_ and— Not just his words, Stiles realizes, but his _shift_. Derek starts to pull away and Stiles whines.

Trying to catch his breath, Stiles looks anywhere but into Derek’s eyes. “Sorry, sorry,” he mutters. “Just...please don’t stop touching me. That’s not what I—” He shakes his head. “I just mean...contact. The contact helps.”

Derek gives an abortive nod, stopping suddenly as he inhales. He closes his eyes and the next thing Stiles knows, Derek’s nose is pressed up against his throat.

Stiles swallows, very aware of every _molecule_ of his body that is currently touching Derek versus what isn’t. With this new move, Stiles is embarrassingly certain Derek will soon know how aware Stiles is, particularly which parts of his lower regions. “Should you—” The tip of Derek’s nose tickles his neck as it slides up and Stiles notices it plays in tandem with his hand on the other side. All this attention to his throat makes him feel like prey, like he’s about to be shredded to pieces, and he is so here for it.

“I need to.” Derek stops there and Stiles waits, in a nebulous purgatory of trying not to and desperately wanting to, because it definitely sounds like there should be more to that sentence.

“You need to…?” he finally asks, when all Derek does is freeze in place, breathing against him.

“I need to fuck you,” Derek says and that’s… _Okay_. Wow. Stiles has thought about this a lot but he didn’t think it would ever happen _in real life_ , and much less that it would happen _now_ , or _because there’s something affecting them that they can’t control_.

Stiles tries to take a step back but just stumbles as Derek’s grip attempts to tighten, he flails, and his knees give out.

Derek holds him up, but keeps his distance, too. Stiles’s flinch has definitely made him wary, but all Stiles really wants is for Derek to crowd him up against the wall like he had a few months ago, to get in Stiles’s space and act like it’s his own. Own. That’s a funny word, because Stiles’s brain goes on a tangent about wanting to own Derek, to be _owned_ , and he has no clue where that’s coming from. Aside from that little voice in the back of his head that tells him he’s always been possessive, that he’d rather tear someone limb from limb than lose them.

Shaking his head, Derek stares down at the floor. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just— It’s not your fault.”

“No, duh,” Stiles says. He feels bare without Derek’s hands on his skin, as they’re now very purposefully on his sleeves, keeping fabric between them. It only takes a few seconds before it starts to sting, to ache, to feel like his whole body is scraped to raw, oversensitive nerve endings that are catching fire and burning him up and— Derek’s fingertips brush his wrist accidentally and Stiles moans at how good it feels.

Derek stops. “Don’t do that.”

Shuddering breaths try to calm him, but Stiles is past that. “Do what? I’m not doing anything. In fact,” he rambles, “I’ve never done anything. That’s me. Stiles. The one who doesn’t do the thing.” He shuts his eyes and becomes acutely aware of the fact that Derek is the only reason he hasn’t tumbled to the floor. “Thanks for getting us here,” he says. “I’d rather be falling apart in my room than out in front of— Of—” He loses track of his thoughts.

A hand snakes under the back of his shirt and suddenly Stiles can think again. As much as his brain will let him.

“Whoa.” He bites his lip. “Okay. What if we just, um. We don’t have to do _everything_.” He should’ve said “anything.” He’s fairly certain. But they’re definitely going to do _something_ , because otherwise he thinks he might die. Stiles hesitates, brows knitting. “Right?”

Unreassuringly, Derek doesn’t answer, but he helps Stiles over to the bed and when Stiles hisses, pulls at his shirt which feels too rough and tight over his skin, Derek helps him to pull it off.

Stiles waves at Derek’s chest. “In the name of fairness,” he suggests, although he has seen Derek shirtless far more often than he has been shirtless in front of Derek. Which is maybe only now, because even when Derek had been hiding out in the Stilinski house, Stiles had made certain to change in the bathroom for fear of the total hotness that is Derek Hale seeing his comparably pathetic body.

He’d probably care a lot more right now if Derek, after hesitating, didn’t pull his shirt off, too. 

“What if we just, uh. Cuddle?” he suggests, then realizes that he’s splaying open his legs and quickly scooches himself back to make room for Derek. He tries not to whine when Derek doesn’t immediately follow.

“Stiles, I can’t—” Derek is standing, but he looks like he desperately wants to move and Stiles scoots back again to make certain Derek can see just how much room there is for him.

Stiles bites his lip. “It’s just… Just cuddling.” His voice hits a squeaky pitch that it shouldn’t and he grimaces. “Touching. Touch.” He’s bare from the waist up but he’s still too hot, which makes no sense. The heat isn’t on and it’s starting to get late, already dark out. Even a California winter isn’t _hot_ like this. Dimly, he’s aware that it must just be him, that it’s whatever he knocked over in Deaton’s backroom taking effect.

Mostly he’s aware of the way Derek is pulled to him, dropping a heavy knee onto the mattress, right between Stiles’s leg. Stiles feels the reverberations like he’s a spider and Derek has been drawn into his web. Except in a way less creepy way because if anyone is capable of eating anyone, it’s—

“Stop thinking,” Derek says.

Impossible, Stiles knows, but it sounds pretty damn good. “You could make me,” he suggests, then sputters. “Uh.”

“Do you want me to?” And Derek hovers over him, all exposed muscle and red eyes and…

Stiles whimpers.

Derek’s gaze roves over him. “What do you want, Stiles? What do you need?”

Something sizzles through Stiles’s stomach and he squirms, tugs at his pants until Derek helps him out of them and his underwear with too much force, leaving him completely laid bare beneath Derek.

Derek’s head dips into the crook of Stiles’s neck and he inhales deeply, exhales, his breath tickling over Stiles’s sensitive skin, and Derek’s whole body trembles over him.

Stiles feels powerful for a moment, knowing that whatever this is might be fleeting and that he _should_ feel guilty. Right now though— Right _now_ — “What did you say about needing to fuck me? Because, yeah. That’s— I want that, too. Badly.”

Derek lets out a whimper, but he pulls away. “We can’t.”

Stiles boosts himself up onto his elbows, chasing contact. He sputters. “What? What do you _mean_ we can’t?”

“It’s not just fucking, Stiles.”

Stiles gapes at him.

“This thing, it makes me want to knot you, keep you. Tie you to me. And that’s not…” As he speaks, he weakens, his body caving into Stiles’s again.

Stiles stares at Derek for a long moment.

Derek’s still red eyes stare back.

“Lube,” Stiles says, then proceeds to root through a drawer. “Yeah. Okay.” But it’s not okay because Derek’s body isn’t flush against his. He doesn’t wait for a response, already slicking his own fingers and slipping them past his balls, against his hole. He presses and one goes in easy, then another. He’s about to push a third in when Derek grabs his hand.

Derek’s voice is a little too breathless to be as unaffected as he’s faking. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve never had any sex ever,” Stiles says. “So if you’re gonna knot me—”

“Stiles—”

“Are you not...gonna knot?” He tries not to sound as disappointed as he feels, his whole body rousing anxiously and riotously at the thought, telling him he needs it, who exactly he needs it from.

“Stiles, you’re sixteen,” Derek is saying, but he’s slipping two fingers in alongside Stiles’s, crooking them with more finesse than Stiles can imagine and making him say things he might regret. “You’re…” He shakes his head. “We should stop.”

Mindlessly, Stiles nods. “Totally. After this. We’ll stop.” He wraps his leg around Derek’s waist but his calf hooks on jeans and he lets out a groan of disappointment. “Derek. Derek, Derek, Derek. I don’t care. At all. Fuck. Come on.”

He frees his fingers, knowing that getting Derek’s pants off is more important, and scrabbles with the button of Derek’s jeans. His hands somehow manage to put mind over matter and he’s unzipping Derek’s fly and...there’s nothing underneath. Stiles pushes until Derek leans back, strips them off.

“Fuck,” Stiles says. “That’s… Holy _god_. Okay. _Yes_.” He scoots over, repositions them so his face is up against Derek’s dick. “Can I— Well, whatever. I’m gonna.” Stiles swipes his tongue over the head and the blood in his veins runs even hotter. He holds back the urge to flip over and _offer himself up_ , which sounds like something he’ll be horrified even thinking about later, instead taking a moment to appreciate the fine specimen in front of him. He tentatively sucks the head into his mouth.

Derek moans and grasps the back of Stiles’s skull, holds him.

Stiles glances up through long lashes as he bobs his head, taking more of Derek’s length into his mouth little by little. He gets Derek almost down his _throat_ , but then he gags and pulls off. “I really want to try that again,” Stiles whines. “But, but—”

“But you want me to fuck you? Knot you until you only know the feeling of me, of _us_? Until you can’t imagine what it’s like not to have me in you?”

Stiles’s words catch and he licks his lips. “Please.” He lies back, then starts to shift. “How do you— How should I—”

Derek grabs a pillow. “On your stomach.”

Stiles acquiesces as quickly as he can, almost falling off the bed as Derek shoves the pillow under him, presses two fingers back in.

“So hot, so _tight_ ,” Derek murmurs and Stiles lifts his ass up for better access. “Can’t wait to get my cock in you.”

Stiles nearly passes out. Derek doesn’t talk like this. He doesn’t even think _bedroom_ Derek talks like this, and there’s something in his voice that tells Stiles it’s all about whatever that red powder was in Deaton’s office. Not that Stiles knows any of this for sure. He’s never seen the bedroom version of _anyone_ , much less hotter-than-the-sun Derek Hale.

Derek’s thumb rubs over the stretched rim of his hole, fingers still working him open.

Stiles keens. “Derek. I feel like I’m gonna die, like if you don’t fuck me, I will _literally_ die.” He bucks his hips. “I need— I _need_ —”

Derek leans over him. “What do you need?”

Stiles swallows, thinks about what Derek said to him, squirms on Derek’s fingers. “You to knot me until all I can feel is you.” He doesn’t say _us_ like Derek had; it feels too close a trespass into territories Stiles won’t be able to recover from.

The breathing against Stiles’s shoulder is harsh, _pained_. “Stiles,” and Derek sounds like some part of him, the reasonable him, is breaking free, is _breaking_. Period. “Stiles, there’s no going back if we— if I do this to you.”

Stiles tries to grasp the gravity of what Derek is saying. He really does. Some dimmed out piece of him is thinking about how much this’ll hurt and whether he’s making the right choice and what Derek _means_ and if he should be trying to be _safe_ — But all the forefront of his brain can think about is how much he wants Derek to be in him already. He holds his breath for a second, gives himself the space to speak up. “We’re gonna do it because I _need_ you to do it. And I think you need it, too.”

He lets out gasp as Derek removes his fingers. He can feel Derek’s cock nudging up against him as his own leaks onto his sheets. He lifts himself, pushes back, urges Derek to fuck him.

And then, with one last muttered apology, Derek is sinking into him. All of Stiles’s senses buzz and he adjusts to the feeling of being _whole_ in a way he’s never been, being _full_.

Derek rocks his hips back, restraint evident, and Stiles resists the urge to shout for more. Mostly because before he can, Derek starts giving it to him anyway.

Stiles has words usually, but not now. All he has now is feeling, and that feeling is _good_ , _right_ , _more_.

“Stiles,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles can hear his teeth, teeth that only a second later make contact with the skin of his shoulder. Even the touch of Derek’s teeth is overly welcome, has Stiles arching up into it, crying for it.

Derek keeps his fangs there, just hovering, barely grazing over the skin, despite Stiles’s efforts.

Stiles fucks himself back onto Derek’s cock and, he hopes, forward into Derek’s teeth, wants to be caught, wants whatever that entails.

Derek lathes his tongue across Stiles’s skin, some unsatisfactory coping mechanism until Stiles says, “Bite me.”

Fangs rest against neck and shoulder, but then there’s sharp pleasure-pain that makes Stiles see stars and rips his orgasm out of him shamefully quick, clenching around Derek as he comes on his sheets.

Derek doesn’t give him time to recover before he’s flipping Stiles over, pounding back into him. Derek’s clawed hand—Stiles knows, can feel the pinpricks of them on his skin—clutches Stiles’s back and Stiles should be oversensitive, should be begging Derek to stop.

“Keep going,” he whispers, fingers gripping so deeply into Derek’s arms that were Derek human, he’d be leaving marks. His cock is already twitching, rising again against his belly, and sticking to Derek’s abs as it tags him.

Derek nuzzles his face into Stiles’s shoulder again, fits his teeth over the bite he already left and fucks into Stiles. “I’m gonna knot you, Stiles. Keep you. _Breed_ you.”

Alarm bells are too muted for Stiles to pay them any mind as he babbles, “Yeah. Fuck yeah. Do it.”

Derek sinks his teeth back in, his thrusts slower but determined as something swells inside of Stiles, fills him fuller than full as Derek comes in him.

Stiles can feel it, whines and writhes on Derek’s knot until they figure out a roll of the hips that has Stiles clawing at Derek’s back, tears streaming down his face as the intensity catches up to him, catches him off guard. When he comes again, he loses time, forgets where he is, but not who he’s with. “Derek, Der— _Derek_ ,” he mutters into Derek’s shoulder.

Derek retracts his fangs, licks away the blood.

Stiles just holds on. He isn’t ready to let go, to let thought back into his life even though his common sense and reason are battering down the door. Derek is still in him, still coming, knot locking them together.

Derek nuzzles the side of Stiles’s neck, just under his ear.

“What— What are you thinking?” Stiles asks, because he loves ruining things. The fever is leaving him, letting all his other senses trickle back in.

“That you smell like mine.”

Stiles runs fingertips down Derek’s back. It isn’t the answer he had expected and it makes him feel funny things that aren’t _directly_ related to what’s going on downstairs. “Oh.” _Great answer, Stiles_ , he chastises.

Derek pulls back to look at him. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles goggles, then shakes his head. “This isn’t— It isn’t on you. I was messing around because Deaton was gonna teach me magic and, and I wasn’t paying attention. And I knocked stuff down because _I’m_ clumsy and—”

“I came because I felt you panicking, like you needed me.”

Stiles blinks, gawping up at him. “You… What?” Stiles wants to flail, but he’s not really in any position to, the wiggling motion that he makes causing their bodies to shift uncomfortably.

“You feel like pack,” Derek says, resting his forehead against Stiles’s collarbone. “Like—” He shakes his head, stops.

“Huh.” Stiles would love to ask another five million questions, but for once he holds his tongue. This might require more time, more research. He feels Derek mouthing at the bite gently and one thought _does_ make its way up and out of him, his heartrate picking up. “You bit me. That, uh.” He stops, thumps at Derek’s back hurriedly.

Derek turns his head, facing Stiles. “You won’t turn. It’s not—”

“Not the intent,” Stiles fills in, thinking back to what Deaton had said about magic.

Derek closes his mouth, nods off-rhythm, awkward.

Stiles just thinks about how that mouth had been on him, about how just the touch of Derek’s teeth had set him over the edge to orgasm. _Intent_.

A little shudder courses through him.

“I shouldn’t have bitten you, much less—” Derek’s clawed hand tightens in the sheets next to Stiles’s side. “You weren’t in your right mind. I don’t know how this…”

Stiles smooths his hand over the back of Derek’s neck. “Hey, we’ll figure it out. You and me? We’re pretty good at that.”

“You’re sixteen, Stiles,” Derek says, with far more incredulity than he had managed before.

Stiles shrugs. “And yet here we are.” He glances down meaningfully. “Speaking of, how long are we, you know, linked at the hip, if you catch my drift?”

“I’ve never knotted anyone before,” Derek admits. “A while, I guess.”

Stiles hums. “Okay. That’s okay. Are you still—” Derek nods. Stiles can feel it anyway. “Okay.”

They lie there in silence while Stiles lets his thoughts all coalesce and crash into each other, too chaotic for coherence.

“The, uh, the stuff you said…” Stiles starts, but he doesn’t continue. He’s not ready to face up to any of that at this particular moment. He shoves it all aside. “Can we talk about it later?”

Derek looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. “Yeah.” He moves, just a fraction, and Stiles hisses. “Hold on.” Stiles nods ands Derek repositions them so they’re a little more comfortable. Somehow, it feels more intimate, like Derek cares how he is not just about what they’ve done.

“Can you grab the blanket?” Stiles asks, tries to grasp it between his toes before giving up and letting Derek do it for him, tucking the covers up around them as the cool air in the room hits them.

“I should go.” But Derek lathes his tongue over the bite again, soothing it like he can’t help himself. “When it goes down, I’ll just…” His breath tickles against Stiles’s throat, too close.

“Or not,” Stiles says suddenly.

Derek comes back into view, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“My dad won’t be home until the morning,” Stiles offers. “If, um.” He bites his lip, embarrassed like he shouldn’t be now considering what he already did today.

“I shouldn’t—”

“Stay.”

Derek just nods.

When they’re finally able to part, they don’t go far, already warm and cozy in the bed, Derek keeping Stiles warm better than any heater could. They’ve probably fucked up. A lot. But it’s kind of too late and Stiles is too tired to deal with all of the ramifications of his actions.

He’s ready to let himself hide away in the arms of sleep (and Derek, _oh_ ).

Stiles’s phone buzzes. There are two messages from Scott and Stiles winces, forces himself to focus in case it’s important.

> _Dunno what happened but Deaton says “it only works on mates”_

> _???_

Stiles swallows, stares at the screen for a moment. He glances over his shoulder to see if Derek read it, too, but Derek’s head is resting against the pillow, looking far too much like he belongs, despite the surreality of the situation.

Stiles types out a reply.

< _Good to know._

He hits send and turns around to face Derek. He narrows his eyes. “You never kissed me.”

Derek blinks at him, alarm passes quickly through his features, before he breathes out soft and slow. “C’mere.”

Derek reels Stiles in and kisses him for the first time, and like it’s the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments keep me warm in the winter...and inform me of whether or not I should actually write a part two. ♥


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